


A Stay in Connecticut

by MissyTheLeast



Series: Dear Rob AU! [2]
Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Comfort, Family, Gen, Homecoming, Reunion, mentions of Sherman Potter (MASH) & Charles Xavier & Darwin (X-Men), reference to other characters in other fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyTheLeast/pseuds/MissyTheLeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Hogan comes home to his folks, carrying baggage that his father was not quite prepared for, told from John Hogan's point of view...a tale inspired by Goldleaf83's Conversation series (but not part of it, but with her permission and encouragement) this is a three-shot, and while it can be part of my Dear Rob AU 'Verse, it can stand alone on its own merits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 – The Story Thus Far

**Author's Note:**

> However, I would like to point out that in my story this is August of 1945, shortly after the Atomic Bomb was dropped, Hogan is in his early to mid 30s, and made General, he has a fear of cold basement rooms, was tortured during his original interrogation at the Dulag and then again while he was in Gestapo custody (and he has the scars to prove it, which scares and enrages John Hogan to no end), and I think that's enough to go on.
> 
> Continuing thanks to Snooky, Kat, Wolfie for their constant support, to Goldleaf for allowing this AU vision of her world, to Bits and Pieces for allowing me the use of her OC Mike Fitzgerald (from her amazing story “What Price Happiness?”) and to the originators of Hogan's Heroes, for giving us so much to work with.
> 
> As usual, I own nussink!

The image is burned into my mind; such a simple thing, unremarkable.  
   
I am looking out the upstairs window, and I see a man, tall, older, in a summer weight uniform, carrying a battered suitcase, walking down the street.  
   
Towards our house.  
   
Funny, I think, I've never seen him around before, and the neighbors' sons and fathers, whether here or there, are accounted for.   
   
Must be someone for Rob.  
   
The soldier bears out my deduction, turning up our walkway.  
   
Oddly, he stops dead about half-way.  Just looking, looking at the house.  
   
He looks nervous, like he's lost and not sure where he is or what he's doing here.  
   
I'm getting ready to shout down to him from the open window (we live on Chestnut Place and there's a Chestnut Street on the east side of town), when Rob walks out the front door.  
   
He looks up at the stranger in our yard.  
   
He, too, is now stopped dead.  
   
But only for a second.  
   
My son's whoop breaks the afternoon silence, shouting the name of the last person on Earth that I would never hope to see.  
   
He goes swooping down from the front landing, and I don't think his feet have touched the ground more than two steps before he's tackled the man.   
   
I think that Rob might have knocked anyone else over, but this man is just slightly taller and broader than he is, he's braced himself for the contact, and his arms are flung open wide, enfolding my boy on impact.  
   
Like he has a right to do it.

I can hear them, hear them both, jabbering away, mixing up German and English and Rob's German is so good, if I didn't know the sound of my own son's voice, I'd swear he was the visitor to these shores.  The other man's English is beautiful and beautifully formal, almost British in intonation, and the accent is very light.

Most folks don't realize that sound carries on suburban streets; almost no one knows that there is a spot in our front yard where anything said will sound like it's coming from ten feet away.

Guess where they are right now.

I can hear every word like they're standing next to me and what I don't understand I can guess.  

You're alright; you're back; you made it; you're okay...both of them talking over one another, saying the same things in different ways, clutching each other like they'd been drowning and just found firm sand underfoot.

A simple thing, unremarkable.  Playing out throughout this country and throughout the world, best friends finding each other, reuniting.

It's beautiful.

And all I want to do right now is tear them apart and drag my son away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
   
It wasn't the first time that I'd seen soldiers reunited.  

My little brother, Jimmy, had fought in the Great War and when he came home, he wasn't the same happy-go-lucky kid.  He'd seen so much - done so much - and he couldn't seem to leave the war behind.

Then one day, a friend of his showed up on our door step, a little Canadian named Pierre. 

The only difference between that reunion and this one is that Jimmy did knock Pierre over.  
   
   
Pierre stayed with us for over a month and in that time Jimmy went from hollow and withdrawn to completely alive again.  It was wonderful to see the sparkle back in Jimmy's eyes.  
   
   
When Pierre left, it was only temporary; he was coming back to immigrate for good, and they were going to open a business together.  
   
   
On the way back from dropping his friend off at the train station platform, a loose chuck of concrete from an overhead walkway crashed on my Jimmy's head, killing him instantly.  
   
   
A dumb freak accident, and yet I was cool to Pierre ever after, secretly blaming him for my brother being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
   
   
Funny how much the German soldier out front reminds me of Pierre.  
   
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

This isn't the first time Rob has brought home a friend in need either.  "Strays" my sister would sniff whenever she stayed with us. Strays they would seem to most people, but never to Rob.    
   
Armando the cabbie (the teen had preferred to be called 'Darwin') who was stuck when his cab broke down after delivering his fare from Idlewild;

Mother's neighbors' child, Charles, that Rob would bring home as often as he could (which wasn't often enough for any of us, but as long as Charles wouldn't tell me what was really happening, we had no proof);

The West Point adjunct teacher who needed a place to stay the summer of Rob's freshman year (ought to check with the Potters to see if Sherm had gotten back yet from France);

The many many classmates and neighborhood kids and tradesmen and friends of friends who had needed a meal, a place to stay, or perhaps just someone to talk to, to listen...  
   
   
So the scene at the dinner table isn't unusual.  
   
   
Rob, chattering like a magpie, drawing his companion out, amusing and embarrassing him and making him laugh at them both...  
   
   
In fact, it's normal in a way that hasn't been 'normal' for a decade.  Maybe even longer.  
   
   
Not since Mike Fitzgerald, (my son's best friend and the other golden boy in this town), left to join the Navy, has my boy looked like this; like all his dreams have come true.  
   
   
They are saying things to Ann, she answering back.  Good thing they aren't speaking to me, I've lost the thread of the conversation since we sat down.  I hear only a fraction of the quips:   
   
"Robert, really, I'm sure I can tell your mother about this, it is a part of the official record after all.  In triplicate.  I should know, I had to file the reports."  
   
I understand none of them.  
   
   
I realize as Rob gets up to clear the table what has had me on edge all day long; my boy's slouch is back.  He hasn't been this relaxed since he came back to us. 

Some thing has healed him.  
   
In the space of an afternoon, this man has brought Rob back to himself, sound and whole.  
   
I excuse myself as politely as I can manage and head upstairs.  
   
My son is happy, and I should be happy too.  
   
'Happy' is the last word I would use to describe myself.  
   
Quite the opposite.  
 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As I ready myself for bed, I still cannot make sense of it all.

I just cannot understand WHY my son, my heroic, patriotic, 'can't stand bullies and will do anything to give them a hard time' boy is treating his captor, his jailor, this Hessian, our enemy, like his best buddy.  
 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
   
   
I should be asleep, but with my mixed feelings regarding our visitor, I just know I'm going to start pacing and that will wake Ann.  Feeling guilty and vaguely uneasy, I'm sitting in my office in the dark.  It's past midnight and the temperature has finally dropped enough that having open windows help.  That's when I hear something I never thought I would hear again (especially in those dark days when I didn't know if my only child was alive or dead); the sound of Rob and a friend on the roof sneaking out.  
   
"Com'on Wili!  Your legs are long enough, you can make it!"  
   
"Hooo-Gan!  You are crazy!  Why can we not walk out the front door, like civilized people?  We are not trying to get past the Gestapo to hustle the touts in pool at the Hofbrauhaus!  We are going to pick up Kinch at the train station so he does not have to spend the night in a wooden chair until the buses start running in the morning."  
   
"I know but I don't want to wake up my mom and dad; besides, this is more fun."  
   
"Rob, we are not seventeen any longer...and I was never seventeen even when I was seventeen!"  
   
"Have I ever let you down?"  
   
I hear them both stop - a heartbeat and a breath - then: "Robert Edward Hogan, you have drenched me in ice water; thrown me off a plane; convinced me that I was psychic and a great painter when I am neither; buried me in snow; kidnapped me; gotten me thrown into a Parisian jail on my vacation; waltzed off with my dates; made a fool of me one thousand ninety-five times over; put me at the risk of death or the Russian Front at least once a week since you became my charge; stolen my clothes, my cigars, my Schnapps, my ..."  
   
"Um, your point?"  
   
"...and you have never, EVER, let me down."  
   
I can hear Rob smile.  I can hear it.  
   
"Well, then, let's get this show on the road.  Here, take my hand, it's a little tricky over this drain pipe."  
   
They move out of my easy hearing, but I still know when they hit the tree (and someone has actually hit the tree, if the 'ouch' was anything to go by), and when they hit the ground (an 'ooff' this time), then the crunch of gravel as they make their way to the garage, the squeal of the hinges to the double barn-type doors and the soft rumble as the engine kicks over, garage then car doors close...  
   
I have no idea that I'm crying until I hear my tears hit the blotter.  
   
I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here, in the dark, but Ann has just found me, to let me know that we have another guest, a very large Negro who is 'as wonderful in person as he seemed in the boys' tales', and since I'm sitting up sulking, I may as well come downstairs and make myself useful.  
   
I think I need to speak to this Kinch; I need him to explain a few things to me, before I speak to Klink.  
   
And I really need to speak with Klink.


	2. Chapter 2 - Conversations - Part 1

Ann is right - Kinch IS as wonderful as we have been told.

 

Stoic and steady, ready wits with a fine sense of humor, I find myself relieved that my Rob has someone so intelligent and sure as his second.

 

He's a credit to his race; the human race.

   
And right about now, Mankind needs all the credit it can get.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
   
A week more.

 

That is all his mother and I have of him, before this lousy war reclaims him.

 

Then he's off to Germany with his hand-picked crew, ready to pitch in and clean up Hitler's mess:

 

"Mom, don't look at me like that; after all, it's all your fault, you and Dad."

 

Ann gives our jackanapes the Look, as Rob cheerfully weaves a new basket to hold his latest yarn:  

 

"Mom!  You know you're always after me to pick up after myself whenever and wherever I make a mess...and you Dad, are always telling me to make sure that I leave our campsites and playgrounds the way I found it for the next person, and if we have to use anything, like firewood, replace it?  Well, Germany has been in a real mess since Hitler got ahold of it, and I had to help make an even BIGGER mess to get rid of him, and so now it's time to put the everything back the way we found it, pick up all the broken toys and replace the stuff we used or got rid of, so the next bunch of people can start over with a clean campsite. 

 

"Can't argue with yourselves, can ya?"  And there's that smirk that is both endearing and exasperating, blooming on his face, and it's all I can do to not grab him and never let go....

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

It's Monday morning and Kinch has been here for a day and Klink for two, and I can honestly say that I've never been more confused in all my life.  
   
   
My son is home, he's happy, he's healthy, and he makes me proud.  Every time I look at him I see the boy he was and the man he's become and I know that all my prayers have been answered.  Then, I look past him and HE's there and all I see is red.  One minute, I'm laughing at something wonderfully foolish that Rob tells me about trying to get an ice cream maker; the next, I'm scowling because Klink is laughing too.  How dare he find all my son's trials funny! 

   
Rob keeps looking at me, a little hurt, a little angry, and acting like he wants to have it out with me, but every time it looks like we'll get our chance to hash things out, someone interrupts.  Now it's Kinch, asking if I know anything about the new GI Bill.   
   
I may not know whether I'm coming or going, but no one else seems to have that problem -  
   
   
Ann has never looked happier; she is in her element, cooking and making and talking.  She insists on making sure they are all three perfectly tailored and presentable, and has taken it as her mission to get every patch, ribbon, medal and insignia perfectly aligned.  I've often said that I make contacts, but she makes friends, so it's par for the course that she already knows how the Klinks got the family name, how long Kinch's sister was in labor, and has added at least thirty names that I can't spell or pronounce to the Christmas card list.   
 

Rob is every inch like a king returned from exile.  For the six weeks prior, Rob hardly stirred from the house and would go only where and when we took him.  Now?  Rob has taken his guests all over Bridgeport and they plan to go as far afield as Westchester County, New York, to visit his Grandmother Hogan.  And everywhere he's gone, he's been surrounded by well-wishers and admirers.  He may not be able to tell anyone what he's done for the world, but it hardly seems to matter; people just seem to know a hero and a leader when they see one.

 

Kinch for his part does not seem surprised in the least.  He backs-up Rob as a matter of course and Rob in turn treats it as a given that Kinch is his second and as long as Rob acts like the Emperor has clothes on, everyone else falls into line.  After all, no one wants to looks stupid in front of the most popular boy in school.  
   
Klink acts for all the world like the reincarnation of Rob's mangy mutt, Dopey.  He fetches and carries and begs to go wherever we go so that he can 'make himself useful' in return for our hospitality.  He dogs Rob's heels and takes up his every waking moment and likely a portion of his sleeping moments, since Kinch is so tall, they decided he'd be more comfortable in a real bed of his own, so Rob and Klink are bunking together and giving Kinch the spare room.  
   
I bet he snores.  
   
   
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

 

Kinch has come with me to my office to fill out the paperwork for his brother and himself for the GI Bill.  Poor fella has been getting the runaround, often from people who should know better (and likely do).  The main misapprehension is that you had to have seen combat to be eligible for benefits: nothing could be further from the truth.  All you need is service in the Armed Forces for 90 days and a subsequent honorable discharge, and you are in.

   
"So, my brother's years as support at the 504th in the mess and then as a truck driver on the Red Ball Express, that all counts?"  
   
"Whatever he's done as an enlisted man counts.  Working in the kitchens or driving a truck or folding Eisenhower's laundry; you did it for the war effort, it counts.  But what's the Red Ball Express?  I remember hearing the name somewhere, but I don't really know much about it.  It's not classified, is it?"  
   
"Oh no, not at all.  The Red Ball Express was a system where we commandeered two major roads in France and turned them into our own private parkways.  Military traffic only, and it was mainly supplies and men, rolling towards wherever the front was, and then back to pick up more stuff.  The trucks rolled day and night, and it was one of the few places in this war that no one could argue if a Negro was capable of driving.  And since it was support, not combat, it was deemed safe enough and freed up white personnel for fighting.  So it became nearly all colored, except for the officers."  
   
   
"I suppose there's some cockamamie excuse for that too."  
   
   
"I suppose, and your son has had many a choice phrase for the entire segregation saga."  
   
   
I laugh, "I'll bet he does, and if his mother heard them, she'd be forced to wash his mouth out with soap."  
   
   
I look at Kinch, make up my mind, take a deep breath and begin my inquiry:  
   
   
"Kinch, I know that you don't know me very well, and I'm presuming a lot on only a day's acquaintance, but I have to ask, I need to know...what's going on between Klink and Rob?  I know my boy and if there's one thing he can't stand, it's injustice and if there's one type of person that he'll go out of his very clever way to make miserable, it's a bully.  Which is why I can't make heads or tails out of this civility between them; of course, Klink walks around hero-worshiping Rob, that's plain enough, and frankly, I've seen that all his life, but Rob is acting like this is a mutual admiration society.  You'd think that after 3 years cozening the man, he'd be sick and tired and never want to see him again, but he's happy as a clam.  But why?  Please, can you tell me anything, anything at all?"   
   
   
"John, I can't tell you much of anything.  It really isn't my place, and then I'm under orders as much as the next man in your son's command.  But I can assure you, Rob isn't the one you need to worry about with Klink.  Wilhelm trusts Rob, and while he may whine a little, Rob can talk him into anything, and he'll secretly enjoy tagging along."

 

I snort, thinking about the night Kinch arrived, and I tell him about the escape via rooftop, repeating verbatim the litany of abuses that Klink supposedly suffered.

 

Kinch was quick to confirm the recital, "and believe me, Wilhelm left out a lot."

 

"I can imagine," I state as dryly as a sand martini, "but doesn't that make Klink an even bigger fool for trusting Rob?   And why in the world does my Rob trust Klink?"  
   
   
"Klink was never a fool, not really.  He was just brow-beaten and scared, constantly told he was an idiot, constantly second-guessed and threatened,by his own side, so much so that he began to hide his intelligence, just do exactly what he was told and nothing more, just to survive to the next day.  He used his so-called incompetence as camouflage; a smoke-screen so that, for example, if it never showed on camp records that there were any Jewish prisoners, it just came down to Klink's inefficiency, and not him actively listening to his gut feelings and hiding the Jewish prisoners from official actions."  
   
"So that makes Klink, what?  A traitor?"  
   
The word hung in the air, and I felt myself flush, shame and rage in one ugly mix.  I wasn't sure who I hated worse in that instant, me or Klink.  
   
Kinch pursed his lips for a moment; I've disappointed him, I can tell.  My embarrassment mounts as he sizes me up.  A moment more, and Kinch gently asks:

 

"You have noticed that Klink is wearing an American uniform?  John, he didn't steal it or trick anyone into giving it to him.  He earned that uniform, in more ways than I can tell.  But I can tell you, he was never a Nazi, never even voted for the Nazis.  I've read his dossier, his German, Third Reich dossier,"

 

"You read German?" 

 

"and because he was a Social-Democrat, and because he had a history that included his mother's sister who married a Jewish man, he was lucky that he was already a full Colonel and an experienced pilot and administrator, so that even as a so-so officer, he was too valuable to just waste on the Russian Front.  So they stuck him in a dead end job that he tried to do his best in, and tried to keep faith with both his soldier's duty and what was right.  Until he couldn't.  He made a choice that only one guy in a thousand, ten thousand, would make; he did the right thing.  

 

"Klink's no traitor, sir.  You can bet on that."

 

A swelling, choking feeling rises and twists up my gut, coiling through my lungs and forcing out the words:   
   
"But he was your captor, your jailer!"  
   
Kinch shakes his head:  
   
"Yes, Klink was the warden, but it would be fairer and more accurate to call him our custodian, and he was as much tied to the spot as we were.  Sure, he was the enemy, but he was honorable and held to the old ways; so that not a soul in our camp was ever abused by him or his men.  He never stole from us, he treated us as well as he could, the worst thing he would ever actually do is throw us in the cooler or cut down on privileges, and he only did it when he felt we deserved to be punished, and not for the fun of it or to push his own power."

 

As Kinch spoke, I couldn't help but flash back to all those times where Rob's sense of justice and japery got him (by the lights of the Powers That Be) deserved punishments - punishments that he accepted with a shrug and a smile, as fair price for getting the job done.

 

Kinch's voice rumbled softly on:

 

"He enforced the rules about hygiene and kept the place as clean as you can when it was so poorly built, and so we didn't catch a lot of illnesses.  And when we did get sick or injured, we were treated by competent medical personnel.  The camp wasn't a country club by any means, but it was Paradise compared to what everyone else went through.  
   
"And the worst of it was that every time he did what was right, he knew he was risking his neck, because there were so many ways for a POW Kommandant to run afoul of the system, so many ways to punish decent, civilized behavior, that if Klink didn't have some allies on his side, his decency would have gotten him killed more than once."  
   
"So you're trying to tell me that Klink was some kind of hero, just for doing his job?"  
   
"In Nazi Germany, yes."  
   
While his words were sinking in, Kinch added:  

 

"There are only two officers who have ever treated me like I was a man, same as they were:  the first is your son; the second is Wilhelm Klink.  I owe them both my life, and I will never forget that in the middle of the 'toughest' POW camp deep in Hitler's Germany, I was treated with more respect, and yes, freedom, than I have ever been given in the streets of my hometown."

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

I've taken the rest of the week off - who knows when Rob will come back from this latest posting, so I mean to spend as much time as I can with my boy.

 

I also mean to have it out with Klink, if only for my own peace of mind.  I need to see, if only for a minute, what my son sees in this man to forgive and befriend him as he has.  
   
   
I'm getting to the bottom of this, tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, many many thanks to Snooky, Goldleaf, Kat & Wolfie as my invaluable betas and I want to shout out to Sgt. Hakeswill and Marco San Bergos (and Snooky & Goldleaf & Anon who ever you are) for the reviews.
> 
> I also wish to remind people that 'colored' was the term for Black or African-American that many or most people of all races used, and it was neither rude nor insulting back then (and remember, Black and/or African-American as a term did not exist back then).


	3. Chapter 3 - Conversations - Part 2

I don't know what to do.

 

I promised myself that I would get to the bottom of this Klink, tonight, but I'm as close to terrified as I've ever been in my entire life.

 

I wasn't this nervous when I argued my first appeal in front of Judge 'Hanging' Hank Slocum, and he had written the original ruling a decade before - see, the issue was a misreading of the decision in the 'Hudson Tank' case....

 

Ok, stop, just stop it, John.  

 

You're not fooling anyone, not even yourself.

 

Normally, I'd go to Ann with this.  Normally, Ann would come to me before I could get this worked up.  Not this time.  Now, she's pretty steamed at me, and refuses to even listen to my reasons:

 

"Now you listen to me, John Ezra Hogan, because you certainly aren't listening to yourself!  Wilhelm Klink is a lovely man, he's our son's dear friend, he's our guest and he saved Rob's life, and I don't want to hear another word about Hessians, gaslighting, shell-shock, or the Fall of the Eastern Roman Empire."

 

"But Rob even calls him a Hun - he"|

 

"Rob calls him 'Hun' short for 'Attila the' as a joke.  Jokes.  Heard of those before?  Wilhelm is no Hun, if you mean some sort of ruthless barbarian.  And those real Huns sound pretty Chinese to me, and Wilhelm is about as far from 'inscrutable' as you can get.  He's even Catholic!  So I won't hear another word, NOT - ANOTHER - WORD -  PERIOD."

 

So now my wife won't talk to me...great, just great.  

 

Something else to set to Klink's account.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

As the boys are getting ready for bed, I take Klink aside, convince him to speak with me alone, telling him that I wanted to go over a special filing for delayed GI benefits for servicemen not being mustered out.  I had to think awfully fast on my feet, and when I insisted that it had to be done tonight so the forms could make the Special Delivery mail truck at '9 am - sharp!', Klink fell for it.  

 

"I certainly would not wish to cause any trouble or to miss the courier.  Thank you for the time, Sir.  Just allow me to let Rob know, so we shall not be disturbed.  It is a bad habit of his, to interrupt me when I am doing paperwork."  He smiles like he's sharing a joke with me, and off he goes.

 

Wonder what that was supposed to mean?

 

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

I've been sitting here for the past ten minutes, waiting for him to complete the GI Bill forms.  Lucky I brought extra from the office.

 

He's reading through the entire thing, every damned word and asking questions, like:  "Strange, no mention of deferring benefits, have I missed something?"  He even pulls out a monocle for his left eye (who wears something like that outside of an English farce?), explaining that the eye is weak and while mostly for distance - "It helps when the eye is tired."

 

I feel a twinge; I think it's indigestion. 

 

I could be grilling him right now; instead the quiet scratch of the pencil is the only sound there is and it's driving me mad.  Pun intended. Yet I can't bring myself to start the interrogation.

 

Wait, did I just say??

 

Klink looks up at me, smiles as sad as a sorrowing icon, puts the form down on the desk and says:

 

"Robert is much better at this."

 

I startle.  "What?  What 'this'? "

 

"Lying.  Or 'con-ning' if you prefer."

 

I draw myself up as best I can from a sitting position:  "How DARE you!  My son is as honest as the day is long!"

 

" - depending on what day." Klink isn't even looking at me when he says this, he just drops his eyes a fraction and his mouth quirks like he's trying hard to be serious and not laugh out loud.

 

If my jaw wasn't attached to my face - matter of fact, I'm so shocked, I can't feel a thing, so that 'thunk' sound?  Could very well be my lower mandible hitting the desk.

 

"Who told you, who told you?  The last time I said that, Rob wasn't even in the same town!  That's MY line!"  

 

I've reared up bodily, trying to lean over the desk into his face.   Not only is this guy a Hessian and a Hun and my son's keeper, he's a plagiarist.  

 

Klink looks confused and at a loss.  He seems a little shocked at my behavior.

 

I'm a little shocked at my behavior, so I settle back into my chair and try to explain.  I clear my throat. 

 

I clear my throat.

 

"Uruhmmph"

 

I clear my throat.

 

"uuhh"  

 

Okay, let's try this again.

 

"Can I offer you a soda pop?  You must be thirsty.  I know I am, I'll be right back."

 

I shoot out of the room and sling around like a bullet in a half-baked Stooges' routine, and I run straight to the kitchen and open the Frigidaire door, suddenly forgetting why I was there in the first place and hoping for inspiration.  

 

"You're letting the cold air out," says my wife with asperity.

 

I jump and slam the door, but since my hand is molded around the handle like it was glued there, the door pops right back open.  I slam it again.  Same thing.

 

"It helps if you let go."  She gives me a look like I've lost my mind.  Great, now my wife thinks I'm crazy.

 

Stupid Klink.

 

"Of course.  I know that.  I'm just, I can't make up my mind and since you are insisting that the door be shut I have to keep opening it to see what's inside."

 

"Uh-huh.  You know, you do realize that Rob is better at it than you are."

 

"Now you're doing it too?  What's wrong with you people!  I swear he's it's contagious!"

 

I finally remember the clever excuse I used and grab two bottles of Coke (I'll never sleep tonight anyways) and mustering my dignity, I start to sweep past Ann when she steps in front of me and points - at the fridge, whose door is still open.  

 

"Don't worry, I'll get it, before you break the hinges.  Now go back upstairs and apologize to poor Wilhelm, for your churlish behavior."

 

"Churlish?  My dear, I'll have you know I wasn't anything less than professional."

 

"Which means, Mr. Municipal Prosecutor, you were barely civil.  John," she takes my free hand in both of hers, "listen to yourself.  You're treating a good innocent man like he's Simon Legree, twirling a mustache and tying Rob to the railroad tracks."

 

"Klink is not an innocent man, he held our son against his will"

 

"Since when?  Maybe for the first week or two, a month at the outside, but we both know that Rob could have left anytime he wanted."

 

"And we know this how?  Sure, we guessed that Rob was running that secret base, and don't get me started on that buffoon of a reporter, but how do we know that Klink wasn't responsible for the constant danger he was in?  How do we know that Klink wasn't responsible for those thrice-damned scars?"

 

"Easy.  Because Kinch likes him!  Rob would never forgive a villain his villainy, but even if he would, Kinch would never forgive that kind of hurt against his Colonel, neither would the others.  And from what I understand from Hans"

 

"From who?"

 

"Hans Schultz, sweetheart I've told you all about him at least three times, do keep up with the rest of the troop, you're holding us up, and from what Hans tells me, there are over a thousand men who owe their lives to our boy, and they are fierce in their regard, so there's no way that Wilhelm would be accepted as a charter member of the club if he didn't pass muster."  
    
Again, at a loss for words and feeling more and more uneasy, I try for the dignified retreat, and this time, Ann lets me stroll past.

 

Said stroll turns into a dead run as soon as I'm out of view, and I can hardly stop in time and have to make a U-Turn at the bathroom.

 

I stroll in, trying for 'unconcerned' and 'completely normal'.

 

From the strange look he's giving me, I can tell the stroll is not going over well.

 

I hand him a Coke and keep the other for myself, sit down and am about to take a swig when I realize that I forgot the bottle opener.

 

Klink holds up an elegant hand and pulls out one of those special pocket knives with the extra contraptions that Army people always have on them - my mind flashes back to the last time I saw one, the one my kid brother had in his pocket when - meantime Klink has gotten his bottle open, nattering on all the while:

 

"....and then Robert purchased this wonderful  Schweizer Offiziersmesser  to replace it.  That was truly kind of him, would you not agree?  Oh, of course you would, you are his father after all, you are already well aware of his generosity.  Here, allow me."

 

And Klink stands, leans over the desk, and tries to take my pop bottle!

 

"No no that's quite all right, no need to bother," I stand and politely try to yank it back.

 

He won't let go and tugs it towards him.

 

I pull.

 

He pulls.

 

I twist.

 

He wrenches, and compromises:  "We will both hold it, yes?" 

 

And he pops the top with a final jerk.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

I always knew that Coke settles your stomach, but I had no idea it could be used as a paint and varnish remover.  

 

Not bad as a sinus cleanser either.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

My boy, my wife and our visitor all burst into the room, all talking at once:

 

"Sir, he's not..."

 

"...John Ezra Hogan you're not..."

 

"...welcome then I'm not!"

 

And they all stopped dead.

 

And they looked at us while we looked at them.

 

To say they looked 'stunned' is putting it mildly.

 

Then Klink and I turned ever so slowly back to each other, both of us still clutching the now empty bottle.

 

Not quite sure what he sees, but me?  There's foam, lots of foam, a mini Niagara of it rimming my eyes. Dripping from the overhead fan.  Maybe the ceiling.  Off Klink's nose.  Off his chin.  Both eyebrows.  His monocle looks like a soapy window at the car wash.  On his shoulders like epaulets. 

 

He looks like, like -

 

"Has anyone ever mentioned that you resemble an enraged koala?"

 

"Young Private Hill, but normally, the general camp consensus is either a dying cod fish or a molting vulture."

 

Blinking, I look him straight in the eye, and while I catch a glint of honest merriment, I pride myself on knowing the truth when I hear it; just now, I've heard it.

 

I'd consider tossing out my own witty remark, except I'm laughing too hard.

 

So is everyone else.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Epilogue

 

Saturday.  Today, my boy goes back to Europe, to Germany, where he is desperately needed by all accounts.

 

We have gone with him and his friends into the City, New York, New York, to see them all off.

 

And when I say "all" I mean "ALL".  We've met so many of Rob's men today, I'll need a scorecard to keep 'em straight.  

 

A few stick in mind:

 

Carter is like a friendly puppy; Baker quiet and easy-going; Olsen cracks wise at the drop of a hat.  Of the former German soldiers, Hans Schultz is the most informative, all the while assuring us that he knows "NUH-THINK!"  But before I can tell Rob to look out for this guy, Ann tells me that Hans got permission to give us the highlights of the last few years, so "don't be a tattle-tale."

 

Permission from whom I'd like to know - who ever heard of this Nimrod guy anyways?

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Driving back home, I'm alone with my thoughts, since Ann has fallen asleep besides me.

 

I never did get to go one-on-one with Klink.  

 

But I guess I don't have to now.

 

Not that I'm not jealous of him; no, I still feel that little green monster swimming behind my eyes.  

 

Yet since the 'Flying Soda Pop Incident', I can take it in stride.

 

You see, I figured it all out; the 'why' of those two, and it's very simple, really.

 

Rob cares for him, because Wilhelm Klink makes my son laugh.

 

In the end, that's good enough for me.

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:   Thanks to my wonderful betas, and those of you who left 'kudos' (it's nice to know that people are enjoying this story. I will be importing more of my work here, and I hope you will continue to read and enjoy.  
> And thanks one more time to Goldleaf for allowing me to borrow her headcanon from her amazing Conversations series on the other website... ;-)


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